Earth's Greatest Stars
by KaylaNorail
Summary: Music Industry AU. Steve Rogers wants to prove that jazz is not dead, Tony Stark builds a new concert hall, the Assassins are on hiatus, Bruce Banner tries to keep off the mixing console, and Thor Odinson is left with no band and no brother. Meanwhile, a certain shady metalhead causes quite a crisis in S.H.I.E.L.D. Records.
1. The Longest Hiatus

**AN: cross-posting from LiveJournal.**

**Basically ****_The Avengers_**** minus superhero powers and alien threats, but plus guitars, microphones, pianos and related stuff. Written by a Badger who has no idea what she's writing about.**

**Inspired by the "super-secret boy band" line (from ****_Iron Man 2)_**** gone wild. Started off as a series of incoherent notes, evolved into pure crack, and finally ended up being more serious than anyone expected (myself included). And despite that, it's still sillier than it should be.**

**I'm sorry for any possible mistakes and other things you may find not quite likeable (including the story itself).**

**Also, apologies for irregular updates in advance. Writer's block and my uni assignments can be really painful.**

* * *

The first thing he heard upon waking up was music. He recognized the tune at once. Glenn Miller. 'Moonlight Serenade'. Gosh, Steve _loved_ that song. Waking up to it was one of the most pleasant things he could imagine. But dancing to it together with Peggy could be even more pleasant…

_Peggy._

_The plane._

_The crash._

He slowly opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling fan for a while. He shouldn't be there, in that clean room, lying in what appeared to be a hospital bed. No, he should be _dead_, lying on the bottom of the sea somewhere up north, where he'd crashed his aircraft, shortly after having spoken with Peggy on the radio—what had tempted him to fly there in the first place?! Was it a bet? He couldn't quite remember.

Still, unwise as it had been, it apparently hadn't been enough to kill him. He sat up, humming along to the song, and stretched his arms. He felt like he hadn't been moving for _ages_, but apart from that and a few scratches, he seemed fine. Whoever had found him and taken care of him had done a great job. His condition made Steve want to leave even more. To see Peggy again. To play the piano again. To sing again.

It could've been possible that he had been missing for quite long. That sort of thing always seemed to boost up records sales. He smiled slightly, thinking of his fans all around the country, rushing to the shops to buy presumably the last record of Steve "Captain America" Rogers.

Surprise! More of them were to come. And he was so _excited_ to get back to work. First, he needed to record that song with Ella Fitzgerald—no, not really. First he needed to see Peggy. Okay, _second_. First he needed to know when he could leave and what exactly had happened.

He was about to check if the door was closed, when it suddenly opened and a young woman entered the room.

"Good morning," she said, smiling and glancing at her wristwatch. "Or should I say afternoon."

"Where I am?" Steve asked; the whole situation made him temporarily forget about his usually good manners.

"You're in a recovery room in New York City."

Before he thought of a new question to ask, the song stopped. Two hosts began to talk about Miller's new song, 'A String of Pearls', which had been released the day before.

That was when Steve realized something was wrong.

"Where am I really?"

She chuckled. "I'm afraid I don't understand—"

"'A String of Pearls' was released last year, not yesterday."

The woman's smile faded in an instant. Screw good manners. Steve got up and took a few steps towards her. "I'm gonna ask you again. Where am I?"

"Mister Rogers—"

"_Who are you?_"

He didn't wait for an answer. Something in his head told him to escape and before the woman could even blink, he went past her and ran out of the room, finding himself in a dark, windowless chamber. No, no hospital he could think of could look like that. He looked around, spotting two security guards, who looked startled, as if they never thought that Steve would try to leave his room on his own—let alone leaving the chamber as well, which was what Steve did shortly after having noticed a heavy double door. Fortunately for him, it was neither too heavy for him to open nor locked.

He entered another room—or, as he noticed after a short while, rather a corridor, which was much lighter than the chamber, thanks to one of its wall being made almost entirely of glass. The corridor was full of people in black suits; as soon as they noticed him, some of them advanced towards him. For some reason, he didn't really want them to come near. Steve hurried towards what looks like the exit and a few seconds later his foots were hitting the asphalt of the street.

_The strangest street he has ever seen._

He stopped, bewildered by the noise that was coming from everywhere, by buildings covered in all sorts of colorful images, some of them flashing and moving and—he couldn't believe it at first—even producing _sounds_, by unusually shaped cars passing by… or surrounding him, while he was busy trying to figure out what were all those absurd things he had in front of his eyes.

"Please, calm down, Mister Rogers!"

He turned around and saw a tall, dark skinned man with an eyepatch, dressed in black. "Look," he said calmly, "I'm sorry about that little show back there, but… we thought it best to break it to you slowly."

"Break _what?_" Steve asked.

"You've been asleep, Mister Rogers. For almost seventy years."

Seventy years.

_Seventy._

_Years._

Steve looked around, trying to comprehend what he'd just heard. Seventy years. He had spent _seventy freaking years_ buried in ice, sleeping soundly, while the world had moved on as if nothing happened; everything he knew had changed, everyone he knew had changed… Everyone he knew had…

No, but she was quite young, maybe there was still a chance. Maybe she was still…

But it was _seventy years_.

"You gonna be okay?" the man asked.

"Yeah," Steve said, rather unconvincingly. "Yeah, I just… I had a date."

* * *

Note by note, strike by strike, a new melody was being brought to life.

It was pure improvisation. At first, he just let his fingers strike the piano keys at random and after a while a medley of utter chaos finally became something that actually resembled proper music. He didn't bother to write it down; that piece was meant to have a short lifespan. That was how Steve liked to relax, and _gosh_, at that moment he needed relaxation more than oxygen.

They hadn't explained everything to him yet, only because he hadn't wanted to listen to their explanations. At least not then. He told them something about giving him some time to calm down and they showed him to his new room, in the very building he'd left earlier. The room had a bit of the forties feel, but some things seemed a bit off—like the TV set, which Steve thought to be a weird empty photo frame until somebody showed him how to use it. But the thing he was looking forward to the most was using a shiny black piano standing in the corner.

And there he was, playing a melody nobody would probably hear ever again. It wasn't even his usual jazzy-swingy type; he couldn't quite describe its style. It was easier to describe the emotions it conveyed. Confusion. Longing. A slight touch of melancholy. But also a tiny spark of curiosity. For as much as his thoughts were pretty much centered about times which have passed and faces he wouldn't see anymore, a part of him wanted to see how the world changed during his sleep. That quick glimpse at the new New York wasn't enough for him—he was too overwhelmed by it all to discern the details. He wondered how the fashion had changed, how the music—

_THUMP THUMP THUMP THUMP THUMP THUMP._

Steve nearly fell off his stool. He quickly covered his ears; at first he thought that it was some kind of bombing or an earthquake, but then realized it sounded more like somebody extremely strong using an extremely heavy hammer. He could just hope it wouldn't last too long—and that the wall would survive it.

Both of his wishes were fulfilled within a minute or so. The noise stopped and the wall seemed to be intact. Steve sighed with relief and was about to go back to playing the piano, when somebody knocked on the door.

"Come in."

The door opened. It was the eyepatch man from before.

"Relaxed yet?" he asked, walking into the room.

"Pretty much. That hammer guy got me pretty shocked, but that's nothing."

"Who? Ah! You probably mean Adam. Got a room next to yours. I told him to either switch the music off or use earphones— "

"Music? That unearthly noise was _music?!_"

"It seems our opinions on that matter do not differ…"

"What horrible times these must be if music degenerated to _that!_ I'm afraid to ask what happened to movies and clothes—"

"Don't worry, there are other, _better_ music genres apart from that. And even the older ones have their fans around the world too."

"Finally some good news. So, er, I think I'm ready. For some explanation. How I ended up here and so on."

"It was rather accidental. A bunch of scientists were checking something in the Arctic, drilling through the ice and they stumbled upon your plane with you inside, alive and maybe not really kicking, but well. They had you defrosted and connected to all sorts of machinery I don't have an idea about. That is, until they decided to see if you'd be able to go on without all that junk. Or so I was told, it's not really my field."

"And what is your field?"

"Oh. That's right, I haven't introduced myself. Nick Fury, the director of S.H.I.E.L.D. Records."

"S.H.I.E.L.D. Records?"

"Yes. We're a record label."

"I thought you were—I don't know—another bunch of scientists or some military guys or a secret organization dealing with all sorts of… secret… stuff."

Fury chuckled. "Why is that?"

"I'm not sure—just a feeling, I guess. And all that security. Also, that eyepatch. Doesn't really seem fitting for a director of a record label company."

"I reckon it is a bit unusual. But what can you do, incidents happen. Whether to an undercover secret agent or a brat on his way home from Woodstock, it's all the same for them. As for the security, you never know when it may come in handy. There' no such a thing as 'too safe'."

"So… Going back to the main subject, how come you're now taking care of me?"

"Well, at first you were being taken care of by those scientist and some doctors. But it was obvious that if you were to finally wake up and just live your life, you'd be left on your own. However, having slept for _that_ long and having _no idea_ about how the world has changed, it would be a bit unwise to just let you out into the streets. You have no family. You named no descendants nor heirs before your 'death'. So, since we hold the rights to your works—or rather _had been_ holding the rights to your works before you were found, we decided that we'll be babysitting you until you'll be fit to live on your own. Also, we hope you'll be willing to come back to the stage."

"Under your label, I presume?"

"Of course. Of course, you have the right to decline."

"What about the label I used to work under back then? Erskine Records?"

"We took over some time ago. So at least on that score nothing much changes for you."

"Yeah… So, er, when do you want me to begin the recordings?"

"You tell me. We don't want to force you to do anything if you don't feel like it. We're no slave drivers. Just tell us when you're ready. So, it's a deal then?"

"Deal." They exchanged handshakes. "And I think I'll get back to business quite quickly. I haven't made music for _ages_, I need to make up for that. I feel like I could play the piano for a week straight."

"Remember that you also need to learn about the world of today. Not to mention sleeping and eating—"

"Yes, yes, I know. By the way, how many minutes long should the songs be? Something probably changed in the way the songs are distributed now, didn't it?"

"Yes, it did. We'll need no more than eighty minutes in total."

"_Eigh_—" Steve's face froze in an expression of utter bewilderment, when he realized that to his knowledge such a gramophone record would be _one hundred inches _in diameter. "Ho, boy! Those present-day records must be _heavy_!"

"Well, son," Fury smirked, "you're gonna be surprised."

"Is that all for now?"

"I think it is. Unless you want to request something. Like food. Or a newspaper. Or a teddy bear. Whatever you wish for, except Kinder Surprise."

"Only one thing, actually. Could you find out… um… well… whether Peggy Carter is…"

He didn't have much hope about seeing Peggy again. And even if she was alive, she'd be about ninety. And probably she'd have started a family of her own. But Steve would prefer seeing her with grey hair and glasses, sitting in an armchair, sipping some kind of herbal tea and talking about her grandchildren (or even grand-grandchildren) to just visiting her grave.

"Of course." Fury put his hand on the doorknob. "I'll tell someone to take care of it. And although you didn't say anything about dinner, you're going to get it too. You haven't eaten properly since World War Two, after all."


	2. Split in Half

The studio was empty when Thor marched in. He hadn't been there since the breakup of the band. But it was high time to stop practicing in his room and return to serious training there instead. He plugged in his guitar, Mjolnir, and plucked its strings several times. Yeah, it was tuned all right. He proceeded to play some guitar solos from their last album. It was actually quite relieving—for a while he forgot about all that trouble he'd been through lately.

On one hand, the problem with Thor's hasty and fierce character had been solved—yes, getting into a fight with those musicians from the Frost Giants had been a _really_ bad idea, but at least spending some time being cut off from his bank account and forced to live outside his family mansion as a punishment certainly helped to repair his personality. On the other hand, if Thor hadn't acted in such a foolish way, his father's health wouldn't probably have declined so suddenly—Odin had been feeling unwell at the time even without his son's 'help'.

And then there was Loki…

He had remarked that he was feeling underestimated by everyone even before the shocking revelation. And when he discovered those adoption papers, when he learned that his biological father was the owner of the rival company, Jotunheim Music, he just snapped. In his eyes it finally became clear why others treated him like someone inferior, someone _too different_. He couldn't have contained his anger anymore—and that was too much for Odin. With him at the verge of life and death, and Thor being temporarily separated from the rest of his family, Loki was put in charge of the company. And that was truly _disastrous_. First, he proposed Jotunheim some cooperation—part of it being 'unofficial'—and then tried to bring them down using some not entirely legal methods. It was only thanks to their friends' warning that Thor returned earlier than planned and stopped Loki in time. He didn't stop him from leaving, though.

Thor kept playing, feeling more and more confident with each note. Suddenly he caught himself humming, and finally—singing in his characteristic, coarse voice. All the energy and enthusiasm he'd lost recently were coming back.

And then he got to the eighth track.

'Just a Bit of Fun'. The only track authored by Loki alone. He had written more pieces of music, but that was the only one they'd let him to put on the album. It wasn't that Loki was bad at writing music—everyone just kept saying his songs were 'a bit off', although nobody was keen to elaborate on what it exactly meant.

It was also the only song on the album where Loki performed the main vocal part. There was no way Thor could sing it like Loki used to—Loki's voice was much smoother, almost alluring, and while Thor was a very good power metal singer, he could never achieve the same timbre. And the solo from that song was basically _impossible_ to play for anyone except its author. Thor had tried to play it a few times before and he'd always given up quickly, just like everybody else. Only Loki could get all the notes right. In that field he was _extremely_ skilled; his fingers could pluck the strings and slide up and down the neck of the guitar incredibly fast, and yet make no mistake. Nobody could remember Loki getting anything wrong in _years_. But then, not many people really praised him for his skills. Everybody's attention was always focused on Thor. Only after Loki had left, it suddenly became obvious for everyone that he had been as important part of the band as Thor. Sons of Odin could not exist without either one of them.

Thor's finger slipped, resulting in a discord. He tried once again, but it was just yet another failed attempt. Frustrated, he sighed and sat on the floor; all the gloomy thoughts returned.

Not that he hadn't tried to contact Loki after his departure. Everyone did. But Loki hadn't just left—he _disappeared_. The police couldn't track his phone nor find any trace of him being _anywhere_, as if he'd vanished into thin air—which was quite a feat, considering he was rather famous.

Thanks to the company and the band's usual secretiveness about family matters and the whole investigation being undisclosed to the public, the media didn't know a thing about it—well, okay, not really. They were told that Sons of Odin are taking "a break for a while". And the executives from Jotunheim Music mentioned at their latest press conference—called mainly to discuss the latest gossip about "arguments among the members of the Board", "tax frauds" and "copyright breaches"— that there was a deal between them and Asgard Records but "it's not an issue now". However, they didn't get into the details or say the trouble was all Loki's fault—probably because they didn't know all the facts. When Loki wanted it, he could successfully conceal the truth under a very thick layer of lies and make sure to leave no evidence leading to him, although up until then he used his abilities for relatively harmless goals (like enumerating gazillions of reasons why he and Thor apparently had been unable to borrow their father's Mustang in order to take a forty miles long ride just to get Thor's favorite ice cream). Nobody really knew what Loki was up to, until the chief security officer of Asgard, Heimdall Velez, stumbled upon some of the papers Loki managed to forge—according to Heimdall, they were so accurate that it took him some time to actually realize they were forgeries. That's when he decided to spy on the younger Odinson—and finally uncovered the truth afterwards.

There hadn't even been enough time to decide what to do with Loki when his plan had been thwarted. When Thor, having got the evidence from Heimdall, confronted his brother in Loki's temporary study, they had quite an argument. Loki tried to justify his actions, but it all sounded so crazy and pointless to Thor, who wasn't aware of all the facts back then. Finally, they got into a fight—and it was a _life-and-death_ struggle, with Loki being so desperate to obtain and destroy the evidence that he seemed not to care whether he'd kill Thor in the process or not. It all stopped only thanks to Odin, who—thanks to a rather strange coincidence—recovered well enough to leave his bed and come to the study, alarmed by the noise. Loki just began explaining himself, when Odin interrupted him with only two words, said in a calm, yet stern voice. _"No, Loki."_

For a while, they thought Loki was going to collapse on the spot; his whole body was trembling when he stared at Odin, unable to say a word. But then he suddenly stormed out of the room, not even looking back. Thor tried to chase him, but having been injured quite badly during the fight he quickly lost him and alarmed the security. They searched the whole mansion, but with no effect. Loki was gone. He didn't take anything with him—he just _left_.

Months had passed and he was still somewhere out there. Thor glanced at Loki's guitar, which was leaning against the wall, gathering dust. Thor remembered only too good when one of the policemen in charge of the investigation had remarked something about how Loki not leaving any tracks might suggest he'd got himself killed, but nobody took it seriously—or rather, nobody _wanted _to take it seriously. His family still hoped to see their runaway son again, but day by day, this hope was wearing thin. Frigga and Odin were slowly considering announcing Loki's disappearance publicly, and starting to regret they hadn't done it in the first place. That would probably end in creating some unhealthy interest in the case and causing quite a scandal, but that would most likely happen sooner or later—but it would be still better to face it sooner and find Loki than postpone it and never see him again.

Thor knew very well about his parents' plans. They'd told him everything—including that after Loki's possible return they would have to finally reveal what he'd done—and asked for his opinion; he just told them to do as they wish. What he _didn't_ tell them, however, was that he would gladly engage in the search himself. He also had no clue about Loki's whereabouts, but sitting at home, without any news, whether good or bad, was driving him mad. He would much prefer to actually _do_ something and search for his brother than just wait. Yeah, but if a trained team of policemen was apparently unable to find Loki, why Thor, a _musician_, should beat them?

He sighed again and unplugged Mjolnir. The practice lasted much shorter than he planned, but he couldn't force himself to play more at the moment. He was about to leave the studio, when he heard the phone in his pocket ringing. When he got his out and saw his mother's number on the screen, his heart skipped a beat. He'd told her where he'd been going, the studio was located almost literally a stone's throw away from their mansion; there was no reason for her to call. Unless…

He answered the phone. "Yes, mother? Did something happen?"

"Thor…" Frigga's voice was trembling; she sounded as if she was trying not to laugh _and_ cry at the same time. "It's Loki… He's been sighted. Loki is alive."


	3. Choices

If someone saw the Pegasus Facility, they'd probably think it was some kind of secret military research base located in the middle of nowhere. They would be _almost _right, for it indeed was a secret research base located in the middle of nowhere, only that it had nothing to do with the military. It was the property of S.H.I.E.L.D. Records—to be exact, of their technology department.

While the idea of building such a site for the sole purpose of testing all sorts of musical equipment—from keyboards to amplifiers—would seem crazy to many people, Director Fury thought otherwise. First, rival companies had very small chances of locating and infiltrating it—most of them didn't even know about its existence. Second, they could make as much noise as they wanted and not risk some grumpy elder citizens reporting 'breaching of the peace' to the police. And, to be honest, there hadn't been any trouble with both of those matters so far.

But the Pegasus Facility wasn't a really profitable investment. None of the technologies developed there had been successful enough to make up for the construction costs of the site. Were it not for the high album sales, it would have created a considerable gap in the company's budget. The higher-ups had started considering closing the facility, but then they were told about the possibility of creating something groundbreaking.

Or rather co-creating it. Or modifying it. Or upgrading it. Or understanding how it should work, for the facility's precious new baby was adopted.

It was all thanks to one of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s best technicians, Erik Selvig, and his habit to visit flea markets every now and then. He was usually interested rather in books than devices or parts, but when he'd saw a young man selling a 'box of stuff', he decided that it wouldn't hurt to have a look at it. Said stuff included two screwdrivers, some components, and a notebook. Just after glancing at the first few pages, Selvig was sure that the author was trying to invent a set of instruments and devices which would complement each other perfectly resulting in the best performance possible. The notebook seemed old, so the seller couldn't have written the notes. When asked where he'd got the box from, the man said something about inheriting it from his grandpa and not knowing whether the said grandpa was the original author or just had got it the notebook from somewhere else.

Interested by the idea, Selvig had bought the box along with all his contents and decided to work on the project at the Pegasus Facility. He needed to make some departures from the original instructions, due to technology having improved during the course of all the years which must've passed between the creation of the notes and their rediscovery—he had to devote quite a lot of time to decide what he could modify and what he should leave as it should be, but the results of his experiments were promising.

But a few things were still amiss.

* * *

"Try once again, Clint," Selvig commanded, from behind the mixing console, his eyes fixed on the computer screen on the desk nearby.

Clint Barton sighed. He would like to be somewhere else but the test studio. Anything would do. He could, for example, take advantage of the hiatus he and the other half of the Assassins had decided to take, and go on a trip. But no, he had _had_ to agree to be Selvig's assistant. Well, he literally had to do it—his contract included assisting the technicians when need be. The need, however, had arisen more times than he'd imagine—and _this _time it arose for a bit too long.

For the first time ever, he would really like to do that 'guitar-floor-smash' he'd seen multiple times on TV and at rock concerts, but it was a part of the Tesseract set—as Fury'd named it, after an inscription scratched on the 'box of stuff'—and he kept reminding himself Selvig would probably kill him in a very slow and painful way for damaging the current apple of his eye.

So instead of wreaking havoc, he played the same melody on his guitar for the thousandth time, his mind being far, far away. He just wanted to finally _get out_.

"Right, now it sounds _a bit _smoother," Selvig said, writing something down. "But there is still some weird crackle in the background—"

"Erik, we've been doing it for _ages!_" Clint moaned. "It's getting late. Can we just call it a day?"

"Just a few more minutes."

"The last time you said it, we worked for three more hours afterwards."

"I swear, this time it _really_ will be just a few more minutes."

"Just how long do you want to play with that thing? I mean, not just today, but in general."

"As long as I'll need too."

"So, there's a possibility I'm stuck here _forever_?"

"Don't be silly. Now, if you could turn the microphone on and sing something."

"And that will be all?"

"Yes."

Smile flourishing on his face, Clint put the guitar down and reached for the microphone, when the door opened and Director Fury marched in.

"How's it going?" he asked.

"Very good," Selvig replied. "And as you can see here," he pointed at the screen, "we also managed to reduce the amount of the energy needed—"

"Excuse me!" Clint said. "You two can have all the time in the world, but let me finish my job first, okay?"

"Right, right. Do your job. And you, Director, listen."

Clint cleared his throat and started to sing. "_The sun was setting when I saw—_Wait, what is _this?_" he asked, realizing that his voice sounded unnaturally high-pitched, like he just breathed in a huge dose of helium. "Seriously, if this is some stupid prank—_Argh!_" He stepped away from the microphone.

"Right, now _this _shouldn't actually happen." Selvig scratched his temple. "It was all fine, Director, I swear, just a while ago it worked—Ah! I reduced the background noise which was produced by the guitar-plus-amplifier combo—although there is still some left—and, seeing as all the elements are connected with each other, maybe it somehow had an effect on—"

"Selvig," Fury interrupted him, "do you realize that the Board is getting impatient?"

"Me too," Clint remarked, but nobody paid any attention to him.

"We're getting really _close_ now, Director. I swear, I'll have it sorted out. It's just—those notes, sir. Some pages are missing and I bet the key to finally understanding the Tesseract set is there. Without them, I'll need a bit more time to make it all work. But I'm going to do it. Definitely."

"Haven't you heard what I just said about _time_? Selvig, if I were the one to decide, I'd give you all the time in the world, because you're the best technician I've ever known and I _know_ that if there's anyone who can solve it, it's probably you. But it's not up to me, so there's the deal, Selvig: you have three days. That's what the Board decided."

"_Three days?_" Selvig's eyes widened. "It may not be enough—"

"That's the same thing I told them, but apparently they know better. I'll talk to them again, but I can't promise anything."

"And what if I won't make it in time?"

Fury sighed. "I don't really know. We shall see. Until then… just keep on working. Both of you. I'll arrange everything so nobody will bother you for those three days, that's the least I can do."

After Fury left, Selvig fell silent for a while. Finally, he reached for the old notebook and said, "Clint, I'm sorry, but I have to break my word."

"Excuse me?" Clint frowned, sensing the worst possible thing.

"If we are to finish all our work in three days, we have to extend that few more minutes a bit."

"So, what now? We're going twenty four seven?"

"No. But you can forget about your afternoon off tomorrow."

Knowing that negotiating wouldn't probably have any effect, Clint just asked, "Microphone or guitar?"

"What?"

"What do you want to work on first, microphone or guitar? The sooner we get back to work, the sooner we'll be done."

"That's the spirit!" Selvig smiled. "Right, we'll try to fix the microphone. Just keep singing until I'll tell you to stop. I'll take a look at the parameters and try to figure out what's wrong with that thing."

"I swear, Erik, on our next album there'll be a song called 'Let Me Out' and it will be dedicated to you."

He gripped the microphone tightly and resumed singing.

_The sun was setting when I saw you passing by  
You tried to blend in, but managed to catch my eye  
No use in hiding in a maze of crowded streets  
For I will find you, I can still hear your heartbeats  
So please, don't run away, let's end the chase  
Just stop and look—_

He paused abruptly when the door opened again, but this time it was not Fury. Instead, a young, dark-haired man entered the room. Selvig also noticed the newcomer and eyed him carefully. The man's overall appearance was leaving much to be desired; he was rather skinny, his clothes were very well worn and from his pale face and bags under his eyes one could easily read that he was quite tired—although his eyes were gleaming and he was doing his best to stand as upright as possible. He seemed a bit like a drug addict suffering from withdrawal.

"Yes? What are you looking for?" Selvig asked. "Did Fury send you? We were told that—"

"To be honest, he did not," the young man said, not even bothering to look at Selvig.

"Could you leave, then? We're busy and quite pressed for time."

The stranger ignored him completely and strutted towards Clint. He glanced at the equipment and spotted Clint's guitar.

"Oi, don't you touch it!" Clint remarked, but the newcomer quickly picked the guitar up nevertheless. He produced a few random notes and frowned, hearing the background noise. He tried once again, but was clearly dissatisfied with the result.

"It's not going to work properly," he said and suddenly just dropped the guitar, letting it fall onto the floor with a _crash_. Selvig stood up, shocked, but before he could make a step, the stranger decided to finish the guitar off by kicking it hard with his combat boot.

"What the _hell_ are you doing?!" Clint snarled, grabbing the rascal by his arm. The young man shot him an icy look.

"Saving your time," he said. "Who knows how long you'd be sitting here, trying to fix that damn thing to no avail… if not for me. You should be grateful."

"_Grateful?_ We should _get you fired on the spot!_"

"Oh, you might encounter some problems with that. You see…" He grinned, taking the ID strap that was hanging around his neck off and throwing it away. "I do not work here."

"_What?_ Erik, call the security!"

"R-right." Selvig headed towards the exit; the stranger, however, broke free from Clint's grip and blocked his way.

"Please don't," he said. "I would like to have a talk with you, Mr Selvig."

"And we'd like to have a talk with _you_." Clint drew closer. "About how you got here, who you work for and how much you're gonna pay for the damage you've done, but let's save that for later, after you'll have been properly dealt with. Erik, go. If he tries anything, I'll stop him."

The technician nodded nervously; he quickly walked past the stranger, who didn't even move this time. But when Selvig's hand touched the door's handle, the young man suddenly asked, "Do you want to finish your work on the Tesseract set or not?"

Selvig froze; Clint raised an eyebrow, surprised. The project they were working on was considered classified and only a handful of people knew about it. Moreover, it was codenamed as a bunch of random numbers and the only people who referred to it as the 'Tesseract' were Selvig, Clint and Fury.

"How—how do you know about that?" Selvig asked, still not keen to let go of the handle.

"Let's just say I have a reliable source." The young man smiled. "Listen, Mr Selvig, you're quite a renowned technician. I'd even risk saying you are one of the _best_. But even your ingenious mind is cannot solve the riddle of the Tesseract. Not with an incomplete manual. And _certainly_ not in just three days."

"Seriously…" Selvig turned around. "_How_ do you know about all of this? _Who sent you?_"

"_Sent me?_ No, Mr Selvig. You're trying to figure out who's behind me while _I_ am the one you should pay attention to. I do have some… _associates_, so to speak, but I don't want you to work for them. I want you to work for _me_."

"And you are—?"

"Just call me Loki."

"Loki? Where have I heard that befo—Of course!" He snapped his fingers. "Are you Thor Odinson's brother?" He almost smiled, but refrained from doing so, seeing a spark of fire in Loki's eyes for a split second. "I, um—I met Thor some time ago. Nice guy." He only made it worse; the young man looked like he wanted to incinerate Selvig using his eyesight.

"Wait, so you're that guy from Sons of Odin?" Clint finally remembered where he'd known the name 'Odinson' from. Now it was his turn to receive Loki's murderous glare.

"As I said… just call me Loki. So, Mr Selvig, here's the deal. You can sit here for three days and achieve basically _nothing_, because the hints you have are not enough and because you weren't given enough time. Nobody will think about how much effort you've put in it and how dedicated you were; for them it'll only be a failure—and they won't pay you for a failure. All your time and energy wasted. But I can help you fill the gaps. I'll give you information. I'll give you time. And—of course—you'll be properly rewarded. All you have to do is—"

"Hold it," Clint interrupted him. "You're _not_ stealing our best technician."

"No, I'm certainly _not_ stealing him. I'm just asking him nicely. It's up to him to decide whether he wants to come with someone who will actually _value _his hard work, or stay with people who see him only as a tool."

"How—how can I know you're not lying?" Selvig asked nervously; his voice was shaky and he turned a bit pale. "Maybe you've just overheard our conversation and cannot help me at all?"

"Hah!" Clint exclaimed triumphantly. "Well, so much for your tricks, Loki. Excuse me now, it's time to finally alarm the security—"

"Not so fast." Loki reached into the pocket of his jeans. "I expected that you'd ask about it, Mr Selvig, so I was prepared. Here." He handed Selvig a folded piece of paper, yellowed with age. "Have a look and then decide."

Selvig's hands trembled when he unfolded the piece of paper. He gasped, when he saw the familiar handwriting. "I can't believe it! It's—"

"—one of the missing pages from the notebook, yes."

"Do you have more of them?"

"Yes. Only that I don't carry them with me, obviously."

"Do you have… _all_ of them?"

"Sadly, I don't. But I know where to find them and I _will_ get them. So?"

"_Don't_, Erik," Clint took a step closer. "Don't listen to him."

"Why not?" Selvig uttered; his eyes were fixed on the piece of paper. "If he's really got the rest of those notes—"

"He's got only a _part_ of them, if he's not lying!"

"But maybe it's enough! And, more importantly, I won't have to worry about the deadline. Maybe I can finish it—"

"You will finish it _here_, Erik. Remember who you work for."

"Exactly, Mr Selvig. For people who think they _always_ know best, while they have _no idea_ what they're dealing with," Loki said. "For people, who think you can materialize new technologies out of thin air like some damn wizard only because _they want you to do so_. Who simply _don't care_ for you as long as you do as you're told. Remember all those times when you did you work splendidly. Did anyone thank you? Anyone at all?"

"_Shut up_, you. Erik—"

"Clint…" Selvig wiped sweat from his forehead. "Clint, I'm sorry."

"Erik—"

"So, is that a yes?" Loki extended his hand. Selvig hesitated; his breath quickened considerably. Clint shook his head in disbelief.

"Erik, seriously, you _can't_—"

"I accept," Selvig finally said, shaking Loki's hand.

"Very well." Loki looked most pleased. "You're not going to regret it, I swear."

"Actually, you _are_," Clint countered. "_Both of you_." He rushed towards the door only to be stopped by Loki, who in a flash seized him by his arms and pinned him against the wall.

"Whoa, Loki!" Selvig yelled, about to pull the young man aside.

"_Stand back,_" Loki snapped. "My, how _loyal_ you are, Clint Barton. Or maybe you're just _jealous_, huh?"

"Why should I be?!" Clint tried to shake his opponent's hands off himself, but Loki was surprisingly strong for someone looking so weary. His grip tightened, but it seemed he wasn't going to get into an actual fight.

"You also want to be _rescued_, don't you?" He stared right into Clint's eyes.

"_Rescued?_ What the—"

"I noticed. When I was talking to Selvig about how he's treated by S.H.I.E.L.D., he wasn't the only one person here who began to realize that his position in this company equals to that of a cog in a machine."

"I am not—"

"_Yes, you are_." Loki lowered his voice. "You may think highly about yourself, being the famous Clint Barton, an international star who is one of the best known faces of S.H.I.E.L.D., and who actually get some _recognition_, but just _look around_. Is that what a _star _should be doing? You should practice or just enjoy your free time, _not_ sit here and acting like some guinea pig—no offence, Mr Selvig. _It should not be your job_, Clint, and you know that. You know that you deserve better."

"I _don't_," Clint gasped, but the damage was done; the seed of doubt Loki planted in his mind began to sprout. "I _agreed_ to all of that, I was _fully_ aware of what I was getting myself into—"

"And you were just taking your first steps into business. You were young, inexperienced; you had _no idea_ what that brand new world would look like. You probably couldn't have thought of what you would eventually become. And now? Years have passed and they _still_ treat you like a rookie. And deep down in your heart you know that it's _you_ who should make demands, not _them_."

"_Shut up_." Clint hissed, his fists clenched. As much as he wanted to offhandedly dismiss what Loki was saying, he had to admit it didn't really sound like utter garbage. Clint couldn't recall _when _exactly he'd been allowed to take more than a few days off; he'd had to be always available in case someone at S.H.I.E.L.D. needed him. Every single time he'd tried to negotiate, they reminded him of his contract and the possible consequences of breaching it. Come to think of it, it didn't really seem too favorably.

"Ah, you're more and more upset." Loki chuckled and backed away a little. "So I am _right_. You're _both _treated like mere pawns, like some _robots_ without any needs or personality—"

"I said _shut up!_ And if… if you want me to jump on your damn bandwagon, you can _forget it_."

"Why?" Loki's confidence seemed to grow. "What makes you want to stay here, exploited and underestimated? Ah—or maybe I should rather ask, _who?_"

Clint didn't respond; Loki hit his raw nerve. Yes, if he was to name _just one person_ for whom he'd stay on only here, but _anywhere_, it would be the other half of their band. He could never really describe their relationship, and it seemed that _nobody_ in fact could. For the newspapers it was ranging from friendship to romance, the always level-headed Natasha liked to call it 'the perfect partnership'. Clint didn't really care for a specific label; for him all the possible words in the dictionary were too dull to become the name of their unique bond. All he cared for was for that bond not to get broken.

"This is so pathetically _predictable_." Loki rolled his eyes. "You want to reject my offer because of a _woman_ who doesn't even care about you in return?"

"She does," Clint said. "You don't know her. She _does care_."

"So, tell me, where's she now?"

"On vacation and I know it. And _no_, she shouldn't be here with me, working her fingers to the bone, if that's what you wanted to say. First, _I_ insisted on her taking a break. Second, she's our _drummer_. I don't see any drums in this room, do you?"

"I don't. But you were wrong; you see, I only wanted to ask if you talk with each other much now, when she's away."

"Not your business."

"Is there something wrong with you two, then?"

"_No, there's not_, and if it'll make you _quiet_, we _do talk_. I call her every day and—"

"Wait, wait, let's stop here—_you_ call her every day?"

"_Yes._ So as you can see—"

"And does _she_ call_ you_ sometimes?"

Clint's fists unclenched involuntarily. He took a few deep breaths, trying to come up with any retort. _She's probably busy. Different time zone. It's just how she's like_. No, there were counterarguments to all of those and Clint didn't need Loki to tell him that.

But Loki, seeing Clint's reaction, couldn't leave it without any comment.

"Open your eyes." He approached Clint again. "She needs you only because of your talent, but that's all she sees. Were it not for your skills, she wouldn't even _look_ at you."

"She is _nice_ to me. You know nothing," Clint said, although he wasn't sure what to think anymore.

"I know enough. I know a person who's been lied to when I see one. Trust me, I do have some experience in this field." Was that _sympathy_ ringing in his voice? "She's anything but dumb. That was _clever_ of her, to make you think you actually _matter_ to her as a_ person_. And, as I can see, it was _very_ effective. Break free from this delusion, Clint, or it will destroy you in the end. It may seem sweet, but it's _poison_ and you got to spit it out before it's too late. Come with us, for your own good."

Clint lowered his eyes, trying to collect his thoughts. He_ couldn't_ believe what he was just told; on the other hand, it made _too much sense_. He was becoming more and more confused; it was as if his mind just short-circuited.

"What will you do, Clint?" Loki asked.

Gritting his teeth, Clint looked at Loki and answered the question.


	4. Change of Plans

The city had changed since the last time she'd been there. But she wasn't surprised. A couple of years had passed, some changes were a given. The world moved on and even Russia wasn't completely immune to modernity and Westernization, although the remnants of the old Soviet times were still present here and there.

Natasha didn't really bother to ponder over such issues. She was more worried over the fact that she was behind the schedule. Had it not been for the airport to cancel _all_ the flights due to absurdly foggy weather, she could've left for Prague in the morning. But at least she got a surprise day off and the whole 'all right, I'll go on vacation' thing she'd told Clint turned out not to be a complete lie.

Speaking of which, it was a bit strange he hadn't called since yesterday. Natasha was well aware of the ten hour time difference and the fact that it was two in the morning for him, but Clint _had_ in fact called her in the middle of _his _night several times, just to be sure he wouldn't accidentally wake Natasha up—well, he never actually admitted it, but she was almost certain that was the case. She couldn't help but appreciate it, even if talking to him was tiring at times. All those stories she'd had to make up so Clint would still believe she was travelling across Europe for _fun_, while in reality she was having one meeting after another, discussing their next European tour… She was almost considering changing her first name to 'Scheherazade'. She'd never called _him_ though—he hadn't miss a chance to complain about having a lot of extra work to do, so she'd always waited for him to call when he was finally free.

Of course, S.H.I.E.L.D. might've sent someone else, but she hadn't wanted to hear about it. She gave them a very long list of reasons why she wanted to take care of it herself. She was fluent in several European languages, she preferred to arrange everything personally in order to get _everything_ as it should be, she had proved several times that she was as good of a company representative as she was a musician—and above all, she was a workaholic. Since her childhood, she'd been taught that she needed to be _useful,_ and although her life changed much since then, she couldn't let go of that philosophy.

Still, to say that she absolutely _hated_ leisure would be a lie. She knew she had to rest sometimes in order not to drop dead from exhaustion, and she would probably enjoy her surprise day off, were it not for only one thing.

_Good grief, I hate Moscow,_ she thought as she left her hotel.

Of all the places she could've got stuck in, _this_ was the one she couldn't stand. It was not the architecture, not the culture, not the people, not what was left of the old regime—it was the _memories,_ hiding behind many, many corners of the city. Yes, she'd moved on and learned to focus more on the _present_ instead of the _past_, but what had happened had left some scars nevertheless. Normally she would ignore them, busy with her new life and work, surrounded by new colleagues and even _friends_, or simply _not giving two hoots_ about the old times_,_ because there were hundreds of other, more interesting things she could think of instead. But now, being on her own in that _awful_ city, she couldn't help but feel the memories coming back. Somehow, it was far from hurting like a reopened wound—it was just _annoying_ like a bug bite. However, a bug bite could get worse if not treated properly, so Natasha needed to find something to get preoccupied with.

She thought about the Bolshoi Theatre, but quickly dismissed the idea; the odds of getting tickets for a performance a few hours before it would start were basically nonexistent. Although she wasn't really the type who'd gladly go on a shopping spree, she decided to visit the GUM—there was always a chance of finding something interesting. She quickly calculated the estimated time it would take her. Two, maybe three hours. Still about seventeen hours to fill with activities remained. Minus six hours for sleep—she could get some sleep on a plane too, after all. Eleven. _What am I supposed to do for eleven hours?_ As she walked down the street, she was trying to figure out other possibilities. Cinema? Maybe. Hopefully there was anything worth watching. Seven hours. _Damn._ The State Historical Museum? Four hours. _Screw it, I'll take my time._ Three hours. Getting back to the hotel, take a shower, watch some TV, maybe read a book… _Yup, that should do it._ With the new schedule in her head, she turned round the corner and found herself on the Red Square. But then something made her divert from her carefully planned route.

It was a duo of street performers. One playing the guitar, another—Natasha's eyes glittered—playing the drums. They were clearly amateurs, but as far as amateurs go, they were doing pretty good. They certainly got talent; all they needed were a couple of years of training. And after that, who knew? They could become famous. Natasha smirked at the thought of those two youngsters evolving into her rivals. Maybe it would be better to get them to the _right_ side on the spot.

When they finished playing the song and sat down to have a snack and drink something, she made her move.

"_That was really good, you two,"_ she said in Russian, as she approached them closely.

"_Thanks, good to know,_" the guitarist muttered, having swallowed a chunk of a chocolate bar. "_But you know, if you liked it, we'd be even more thankful for some more gratitude._" He made a gesture indicating that said 'more gratitude' would be best if he could buy things with that.

"_You're going to get it eventually, don't worry. There's something I'd like to talk to you about. But first… can I try them?_" She pointed at the drum kit. She couldn't resist the temptation. She hadn't had a drumstick in her hand since she left the States.

The drummer choked on his drink. "_'Scuse me, Miss? Do you know how much did I pay for them? How long I had to save my cash? I'm not gonna let a novice—_"

Natasha didn't wait for him to finish the sentence. She shoved her handbag into the drummer's hands, snatched the sticks from where he'd left them and proceeded to prove that _she was no novice_. And it worked, seeing as they jumped to their feet the moment she touched the drumsticks, but failed to stop her, standing still and gaping at her in awe, as she kept hitting drums and cymbals one after another, in a quick, but at the same time well-thought and even quite _graceful_ manner. She liked to compare it to tap-dancing, only performed with hands. She hated drummers being perceived as some kind of noisy hyperactive savages taking it out on poor instruments; people seemed really oblivious about this issue, or just plainly _ignored_ the fact that a band's drummer has probably the most responsible job of all the members, being the one who actually creates the rhythm keeping the song together.

She wasn't playing anything in particular—it was more about showing off her skill. And having fun, actually. She missed her usual practice. One of the things she didn't really like about her business trip was the fact she hadn't been able to take her drums with her and play a bit every day. Although knowing Fury, she was _almost _sure he _could_ actually arrange that somehow if only she asked—nevertheless, she decided not to, reckoning it would still pose some trouble. Also, that would be quite weird to boot, and she preferred to be renowned for her _skills_, not wacky habits, like _some other musicians._

Natasha kept playing, not really keen to return the drumsticks to their righteous owner too quickly—partially because she was a bit angry at him for calling her a 'novice', partially because she knew she wouldn't probably have another chance to play in the next week or so. She was focusing more and more on the instruments, paying absolutely no attention to the considerable crowd that had gathered around. But then, all of the sudden, her little bubble of excitement burst as she heard her phone ringing.

She stopped right away and quickly exchanged the drumsticks for her handbag without saying a word, which only made the amateur drummer look more confused. She got her phone out and answered, not even bothering to see who was calling; she was sure it could be only one person.

"Hello, Clint. I was getting worried you haven't called me yet—"

"Natasha… It's me, Coulson," the voice in the receiver said.

"…Oh."

Natasha didn't like the sound of this. Not that she disliked Coulson himself—in fact, she considered him to be one of the nicest people she'd ever knew. Always resourceful, always helpful, always there to get things done. And although officially he was just one of S.H.I.E.L.D. Records' representatives, he earned himself the unofficial title of 'Fury's right hand'—or, as some preferred, 'Fury's left eye'. But so far, every time Coulson had called her, it usually meant a new task. And maybe Natasha wouldn't have minded it about ten minutes earlier, but now, with the whole day already planned, she found it a bit unwelcome.

"It must be really urgent if you're calling at this hour," she said, walking away from the still dumbstruck performers.

"It's… We have a little crisis down there—no, in fact, it's a _huge _crisis…" Coulson sounded nervous. Natasha waited for him to finish, but it seemed he couldn't quite bring himself to do it.

"Tell me what happened," she demanded. She heard him sigh heavily.

"Barton left."

It was as if the temperature around dropped suddenly below zero. The two words echoed in her head as her fingers squeezed the phone tighter. Her face, however, remained still, and when she spoke, she sounded as collected as always. "What do you mean, 'left'?"

"He seems to have changed sides. It's complicated… We don't know all the facts yet, it happened only a few hours ago, so we're still investigating. The whole place is in uproar—"

"Just _tell me what happened._"

"There was an… incident at the Pegasus Facility. Some of our top secret project documents disappeared, along with Selvig, Barton and several other people. We also lost some equipment. It appears the Pegasus Facility had been infiltrated by someone from the outside and—"

"What, don't tell me they've been kidnapped or someth—"

"They _left_, Natasha. I hadn't seen it in person, but the witnesses say they were under no compulsion."

The cold turned into burning heat at once, a raging flame of disbelief and resentment scorching her heart. And yet nobody could possibly tell that while looking at her; as hard as it was, she managed to keep her usual calm, although only on the outside. "What do you want me to do, then? Come back?"

"Well, with Barton gone, there's no point in continuing your current task. But Fury has a new one for you."

"I'm listening."

"We're obviously trying to retrieve what we've lost, but we're commencing with the backup plan anyway. Fury had some of the documentation copied, so it's still possible to work on the project. We only need to get a Selvig-level genius to work on it—"

"Wait. If you're talking about Stark, I doubt he'll agree. He's so full of himself that even _I_ can't convince him. Remember the last time we asked him for cooperation?"

"I do. Nevertheless, _I_ will try to convince him. You'll talk to another brilliant mind."

"And that brilliant mind is—?"

"Another musician known for creating his own equipment."

"So who exactly—" Then she suddenly realized; she flinched a bit. "Wait… you mean that one who's also known for getting excessively aggressive when exposed to _his own music?_"

"Exactly."

"…God help me."

"Now, now, don't worry. He's not aggressive _all the time_."

"Easy for you to say. You are not the one who's going to meet him face to face."

"Don't blame me, it was Fury's decision. You'll do fine, I'm sure. That's all for now. We'll e-mail you the details later. Good luck."

After Coulson had hung up, Natasha stared at the screen of her phone for a while. She thought about calling Clint and asking him some questions. However, she put the phone back into her handbag. She had a feeling she wouldn't like to hear Clint's answers.


	5. Beauty and the Beast

"Ouch!"

Bruce quickly put his burnt finger into his mouth. His experience and caution proved to be useless when the animosity of inanimate objects attacked. He looked at the wires he'd been trying to smolder—or rather what was _left_ of it.

"_Did something happen?_" Shamsur asked, marching into the cluttered room.

"_Yes, that new soldering iron you bought happened…_" Bruce paused, trying to recall the correct Bengali word, but gave up after a while and just said, "_It went pshwootz._"

"_…'pshwootz'?_"

"_You know… There was a spark and… pshwootz._"

"_Okay, I think I get it. Short-circuited, right?_"

"_Yeah, probably._"

"_I'm going to kill that crook._" Shamsur took a closer look of Bruce's workspace. "_He said it was fine…_"

"_Told you, it's better to buy something a bit more expensive, would be more reliable—_"

"_Do you think you can fix it?_"

"_What, the iron or the radio?_"

"_Um… Both?_"

"_Well, with the radio, the only problem are—or rather, _were,_ the wires inside the cable, so if I cut that bit over here, maybe I'll make it work again… As for the iron… I don't know, it's not really my field. Never tried fixing such a thing_"

"_You managed to fix a hairdryer, though. And it kind of looks similar._"

"_'Looks similar'?!_ _You got to be kidding. What's next, do you want me to fix a gun too, because it also looks similar?_"

"_All right, all right. I'll see if it can be saved._" Shamsur took the iron from the table.

"_I'd rather throw it away and buy a new one—_"

"_You know, we may have not enough cash at the moment._"

"_And whose fault is this?_"

"_But that was a real bargain!_"

"_We didn't need a bike._"

"_I wanted one. I told you that months ago._"

"_Right, right. Just go and do something about it. _"

"_And you?_"

"_I'll take a break, I guess…_"

"_Okay, see you later!_" Shamsur left the room, and judging from the door creaking a while later, also the tiny house they were living in.

It was anything but luxurious; one of the two rooms served as Bruce's workplace as well as his bedroom, the other they called the kitchen, although it was also the place they ate their meals, washed themselves, occasionally played card games, received their customers—or, more rarely, guests, most of which were Shamsur's short-term girlfriends—and where Shamsur had his bed in the alcove. There was also a little privy outside, which they shared with their neighbors. Yeah, the conditions were questionable, but Bruce couldn't complain. Nearly everyone living in this part of Calcutta had it quite rough, and he'd known that when he decided to settle there. He'd been willing to reject all the comforts of the contemporary world if only that could help him.

It did. The suburbs of Calcutta were a very noisy place, especially on market day—which was pretty much every day—but that was a _good _noise. The streets were full of people chattering, laughing, shouting—basically, full of the sound of _humanity_, accompanied by various animals chirping, screeching, meowing, mooing and generally not being silent; sometimes he could also hear a loud motor trying to pass through, or a radio playing a song of a locally known musician—all of those creating a weird, cacophonic but at the same time _beautiful _symphony of all things moderately simple.

Bruce had found himself in a place that seemed to exist in a different dimension than the rest of the planet. Despite all the poverty and hardships the local people could be experiencing, they actually seemed… _content_ with their lives. They did not crave for fame, for money, for fancy gadgets. As long as they had shelter, enough food not to starve, good health, and other people around, be them friends or family, they were happy.

Although he'd been living there for quite a while, Bruce still couldn't quite comprehend that, still being 'spoiled' by the rather materialistic culture he'd grown up and lived in. There were times he almost regretted leaving the States, something deep inside him longing for his motherland and the life he'd once led—even though he knew it had been _very_ unhealthy and dangerous, not only for him, but also for everyone near him. Those were moments when he scolded himself in his mind for getting his priorities wrong, when he was growing _envious_ of people like Shamsur, who could appreciate all the little joys of life better than him. Bruce might've found peace, but he still felt odd in the city built on culture and mindset he wasn't able to embrace completely. He wondered how long would take him to wholly assimilate—and if that was even possible.

But, apart from those lapses, he was faring rather well. His fame apparently hadn't reached there, so he didn't have worry about fans or journalists stalking him. People around were friendly, and Shamsur was a good pal and flatmate—despite his slightly annoying bargain-hunting habit; the money he was getting for his freelance electrician job was even more than enough to get by, and the area was so wonderfully _trigger free._ It didn't mean there was nothing to get angry at, but at least there was nothing that could boost his adrenaline level so much he'd become dangerous. During all those months he'd spent there, he hadn't heard anything even remotely resembling a techno beat—not even a single time. And as long as it remained this way, he was fine with his surroundings, with any inconveniences, with the feeling of not really belonging there—he finally felt he posed no risk to anyone.

Bruce sat on his bed and picked up a magazine from a nearby pile, his other hand blindly looking for a dictionary he was sure he'd left on his pillow in the morning. Having finally found the book, he began one of his many Bengali alphabet lessons—while he managed to learn the spoken word fairly quickly, he couldn't say the same about the letters which in his eyes still looked more like decorative ornaments or alchemic symbols rather than proper writing.

He didn't even manage to go through one paragraph of the page when he heard somebody knocking at the door. Sighing, he put his teaching aid and went to see who it could be. He was quite surprised when he opened the door and saw an unusual sight in this part of the city: a young woman, who, thanks to her white skin, red hair and seemingly new Western clothing—and designer to boot—had 'SOME RICH TOURIST' written all over her.

"Um… Do you speak English?" he asked. "How can I help you?"

"I'm looking for Bruce Banner."

In a split second the 'TOURIST' label became nonexistent, replaced by a 'JOURNALIST/VERY DESPERATE FAN' one, with a tiny note saying 'handle with care' at the bottom.

"For whom?" Bruce asked, trying to sound moderately surprised.

"Bruce Banner. Which is _you,_ and don't try to tell me otherwise. I have got enough data on you to know that you're the man I'm after."

"Listen… " He sighed, sensing that denying his identity would be rather pointless. "I don't do interviews anymore, but if you promise you will not reveal where I moved to, I may talk to you for a _very short while_—"

"I don't want to interview you."

_Oh, a fan then,_ he thought. "Fine then, you may get a signature, I may even consider a kiss on the cheek, but no photos—"

"I'm not a fan, either."

"Then who are you?"

"Natasha Romanoff, a representative of S.H.I.E.L.D. Records. And sometimes a music star. May I come in?"

"I… don't think so." He eyed her carefully; her name rang a bell, although he wasn't really sure where he'd known it from. Despite being a musician himself, he wasn't too good when it came to remembering any big names outside his own genre. "Why exactly are you here, Miss-or-Mistress Romanoff?"

"It's 'Miss'. I'm a negotiator. My employer would like you to work for him and I am to make sure you will agree."

"Well, consider your mission over, Miss Romanoff. I quit and I have no intention of going back into the industry. I don't want to create music anymore. Goodbye." He wanted to close the door, but she stopped it with her arm.

"It's not about creating music, Mister Banner."

"What is it about, then?"

"Something I'd not really like to talk about at your doorstep. As far as I've been instructed, it's a rather… _delicate_ matter. So?"

He faltered, looking over her shoulder. "You're alone?"

"Yes."

"Come in."

As soon as she did, he shut the door. Natasha looked around the messy kitchen; a faint smile crossed her lips.

"Well, this is… Spartan. Couldn't you have chosen a better place?" She sat on what appeared to be the sturdiest chair in the kitchen, and placed her handbag on the cleanest spot of the table.

"Couldn't really afford anything better than this."

"Oh, but all the compensations you had to pay surely did not use up all your money."

"No, they didn't. I still have quite a handful of cash in my account, I just… don't want to use it. They're rainy day savings."

"It rains quite often here."

"So far, it didn't rain heavy enough."

"So…" He took the other chair. "Before you tell me what exactly people from S.H.I.E.L.D. want from me, care to explain how did they find me here?"

"Apparently they didn't even have to look for you. They knew you were moving to Calcutta right from the start."

"Oh. Now that's interesting. Tell me more." He grinned and rested his chin on his clasped hands.

"People, who helped you arrange your own disappearance, were paid by S.H.I.E.L.D. And, as far as I know, they still keep an eye sure you behave well and remain hidden."

"Seriously…" Bruce chuckled. "It's Shamsur, isn't it?"

"I haven't been told our agent's identity."

"But really, _I've been under surveillance all along?_ What are you, a record label or a spy network?"

"We just happen to have a very eccentric director."

"And may I know _why_ they've done all of that? I doubt it was just charity."

"Probably wanted to know where to find you in the time of possible need. And make you somewhat indebted to them. You're very good when it comes to the electronics, aren't you? That's what the deal is about." She pulled a folder file out of her handbag and handed it to Bruce. "Have a look."

He opened the file and glanced at the papers inside. "About half of it is blurred out."

"Safety reasons. Focus on the parts that are _not_ blurred."

"What is this?"

"You tell me."

"Some kind of technical notes. Photocopied… It's a manual."

"Yes. Good. And what do you think of it?"

"Seems… rather complicated. And a bit outdated."

"Do you think you could make any use of that?"

"What use exactly?"

"Make those things."

"I can't really tell. It's not enough information."

"You'll be provided with the full version and any needed materials if you decide to cooperate."

"They want me to go back there?"

"Yes."

Bruce chortled, closing the folder file and putting it on the table. "I refuse."

"You won't have to worry about your… fits. I've been assured you'll get the best working conditions available—"

"The answer is still no. I don't fancy getting locked up in a sound-proof room for a prolonged period of time. Been there, done that, almost gone crazy."

"It won't be _that_ extreme. You'll get a workplace outside of the city and you'll be able to move freely around there; they won't be keeping you prisoner after all. But, since you'll be in their care, if you want to go anywhere further than your designated area, you'll get some security to go with you just in case something goes out of control with your temper—of course, you won't allowed to visit some places because of safety reasons, but, seeing as you actually travelled to another _continent _just to avoid triggers, I assume that rule is unnecessary. And, obviously, you'll get a considerable amount of money when you finish your work. Afterwards, you're free to go anywhere you want."

"I don't care. I have no intention of working for you."

"Think of what S.H.I.E.L.D. have done for you—"

"Ah, yes, I'm 'indebted' to them. For following me around and watching my every step from the shadows. They basically _stalked_ me."

"It was for your own good—"

"_And against my will!_" he yelled furiously, banging his fist on the table; Natasha jumped to her feet and, hastily grabbing her handbag, moved herself so that the table was just between them.

"Banner—"

"Don't 'Banner' me now!" he spat, slowly rising from his chair, giving her a fierce look that sent shivers down her spine. "Do you _really_ expect me to happily aid some shady company, which apparently has been in control of my life for the last few months and now wants to keep me confined in the middle of nowhere?! _Do you seriously think that?!_"

Natasha said nothing, her eyes fixed on him, all her muscles tense. Knowing about Bruce's past outbursts and their results, she couldn't fully contain her emotions anymore; she was trembling and her eyes were wide with fear. _Please, don't give me a reason to use that,_ she thought as she reached into her handbag.

And then he backed off, his expression softening all of the sudden. "Sorry," he said politely, putting his hands up in the air. "I'm not gonna hurt you. Calm down. You don't have to be afraid of me _every time_ I get a bit upset. I'm not really strong without the right push. Also… could you show me what you're hiding in there? Please?"

Still shaking slightly, she pulled out something which couldn't be anything else but a taser.

"Safety first." Bruce smiled, as she aimed directly at him. "I knew you are either armed or lying about coming here on your own. That's wise of you. But you don't have to use it."

"It depends."

"You don't. Once and for all, _I am not going to hurt you._"

"Then why did you do that?" She still refused to put the taser away.

"Out of curiosity. I wanted to see your reaction. And see if I was right. Yes, sorry, I know, that was very rude of me to give you such a fright. But I won't do that again, I promise." He sat down again and took another look at the folder file. "Okay, I'll go."

"Ex—excuse me?" Natasha asked, startled.

"I'll go with you. I actually miss the States a bit. It's my home country after all. I doubt I'll do much sightseeing, but it's always nice to set foot on your native soil after such a long time. And all the precautions you've listed don't sound that bad, compared to others I'd been proposed to; at least this time I'll _know_ I'm being watched. Also, it'll be somewhere in the countryside, I guess? I may even like it. One condition, though… After I'll have my work done, you leave me alone. 'Alone' as in 'being spied on no more'. Okay?"

"I'm not the one to decide on that." She shoved the taser inside her handbag. "But I'll do what I can to ensure that your request gets accepted."

"Sweet. So, when do we leave?"

"This evening. Better start packing"

"It's not like I have a lot of things to pack." He stood up and headed to his room. "You may wait here if you want. I should be ready in an hour."

"Mister Banner… There's probably something else I should tell you before we leave."

"Yes?"

"Don't be alarmed when you see six bodyguards waiting outside."

She expected he'd frown or otherwise say something not quite nice about it, but he just shrugged. "I suspected that too. Safety first, after all. Also, really, I've been living here for a while. Do you really think I'd believe that a _company representative_ would show up in this part of Calcutta without any security?" He smiled before disappearing into his room.


	6. The Hiatus Gets Even Longer

**AN: with this chapter I caught up with what I've written so far. The next chapter turned out to be a bit painful to write and I have no clue when it'll be finished. I'll try to write as much as I can during my Christmas break, but there's also a lot of uni stuff to do. (As it is generally known, the more free time students apparently have, the homework is given to them so they won't get bored. FUN.) Sorry in advance!**

* * *

_This is an absolutely mad, wacky, incomprehensible world._

Steve had done his homework thoroughly. All the time he hadn't spent composing, practicing or trying to recall why exactly he'd ended up frozen for decades (he still had almost no clue apart from a few blurry images flickering before his eyes like some lousily edited footage), he devoted to catching up with the world. And he had to admit that he'd found himself in quite interesting times. However, he couldn't decide if he liked it or not.

There were upsides and downsides to everything. Transportation seemed faster and easier, but at the same time more unsafe. Information could spread incredibly quickly, but so could misleading data and lies. Apparently improvement couldn't have been achieved without some sacrifices.

But he was sure of one thing: what happened to music was _unacceptable._

Okay, those small silvery records and portable devices allowing people to listen to music everywhere they went were a good thing—although he couldn't quite understand how the heck they worked, but then he'd never really understood how exactly gramophones worked either. The fact that swing and jazz were not dead was comforting too. But what happened to the mainstream was _awful._ Almost everything had that annoying thumping in it, the lyrics were appalling, the melodies were unimaginative—and people performing those poor excuses for songs were called _artists!_

What was even worse, there was no escape of that racket. It seemed to be following him every time he decided to step out of his lodgings. It attacked him from _everywhere_—radios, the flashing displays, passersby's portable devices. All of that made Steve's outings an almost unbearable experience. He had got his own 'eyepod' (he wondered what it had to do with eyes and why it wasn't called an 'earpod' instead) as a gift from Fury and tried to listen to it in public, but every time he turned the volume up enough to drown out all the awful sounds of the present, he risked getting run over by a passing car, or hearing damage. He would preferably stay in his room all day and let himself be swallowed by the world of his beloved _true_ music, but on the other hand, becoming a recluse wasn't quite a desirable option—especially that he _had_ to learn how to become a part of the society, whether he liked it or not. S.H.I.E.L.D. weren't going to nurse him forever.

However, there was another reason why he considered making it through the rough sea of noise: a certain jazz club on Broadway. He ended up there almost every time he decided to stick his nose out of his lodgings. Steve enjoyed the general atmosphere of the relatively quiet, dark place; the club became his second refuge in this insane, loud city—the first being his room back at the S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters—which was funny, considering that the club visitors and staff were practically the only people recognizing him as a legend. He knew that his 'return from the grave' had been announced even before he'd regained consciousness, but to his slight surprise, people in the street treated him as another boring passerby—save for some girls, who deemed him attractive enough to try to flirt with, but who usually had no idea who 'Steve Rogers' or 'Captain America' was (though a few had said it sounded like a cheesy comic book superhero name). That was certainly different from seventy years earlier, when it had been rare for him to go out and not get himself surrounded by a small army of admirers. Even the media appeared to be a bit disinterested in him; after a rather exhausting marathon of interviews during his first week after having woken up, he had talked maybe to three or four journalists, all of whom seemed more interested in him being hibernated for so long (on which he had had not much to say, apart from "I've been sleeping at the time") and his adjustment to the new times rather than his plans concerning his comeback. In the club, on the other hand, people kept talking with him about his music, about what inspired him and what he was going to do next. He had found it a little tiring at first, but he hadn't mind at all; those were things he quite enjoyed using up his energy for. Sometimes they asked him to come up to the stage to perform with the band, an invitation he rarely refused. In that club, in moments like those, he felt wonderfully _alive_—and suddenly everything he disliked about the modern world didn't matter anymore. And he could finally say he was ready for the recordings. He'd already forwarded his word to Fury, to which he'd got a reply that they would get down to business as soon as Fury would get back from 'fieldwork', as he'd put it.

That day, however, was a tad different. The place was quieter than usual, probably because it was still early and the visitors were rather scarce at the time. But it was the day he needed some more quiet as usual, as he had things to think of—not his usual musings about the world, not even anything connected to his music; no, that was much bigger and much more important.

Of course he could've stayed home, but he'd decided that maybe taking a walk would've helped him to make the decision. When it had failed, he made his way to the club and occupied his favorite spot near the stage—empty, as the band had not yet arrived.

And he thought. He was thinking for a long time, trying to finally make up his mind on the issue that had been pestering him since the previous evening.

Peggy was still alive.

People from S.H.I.E.L.D. had managed to acquire and give him her phone number and her address. All he had to do was call her, or write to her, or maybe even visit her in person. But despite having waited for it so long, despite wanting to do it so much, he suddenly found himself being unable to act.

He had envisioned his meeting with her many times. With his mind's eye he could see them talking—or rather _her_ talking and him mostly listening. The last seventy years of her life has been surely more fascinating than his. But in his thoughts he'd always somehow skipped the very beginning of their conversation, the moment of their first meeting since World War Two. Because why should he have thought of that? It was supposed to be only a short moment, a prelude to the main show. But then, as an artist, he should've known that the prelude should not be neglected. When writing his music, he'd always stuck to the rule that if the first few notes weren't catchy enough to make people listen to the rest of the song, then there was no point in actually writing it, no matter of splendid would the latter part be. The beginning was the key; it didn't have to be the best that the song had to offer—in fact, it _shouldn't_ be; making a prelude too good was like making a promise and then not keeping it—but it needed to be more than just 'okay'.

He recalled that one and only time when he'd started writing a song from the chorus part; that had been a _disaster_ for him and he'd never actually finished it, unable to find a suitable beginning. That method could maybe work for others, but it certainly didn't for him. He hadn't repeated that mistake ever since.

Up until now.

What should he tell her? "_Hello, long time no see_"? That sounded beyond silly. "_I missed you_"? Slightly better, but still not what he was looking for. "_It's wonderful to see you after such a long time, sweetheart_"? Too wordy; he would surely mess it up. Also, 'sweetheart'? He'd never really called her like that before; while he'd had feelings for her for quite a long time, they'd become a couple only recently—minus the seventy years gap, that is. Wouldn't using that word _now_ be a bit awkward? _On the other hand, it's going to be awkward even without that anyway, _Steve thought. What was also bothering him was the fact that Peggy apparently hadn't changed her surname. Yes, she could've just decided to stick to her maiden name after having married… but what if she hadn't married anyone? What if, as ridiculous as it might seem, she had waited for him for all those years, hoping that he would've eventually come back? He shuddered, realizing that the whole situation just reached a whole new level of awkwardness. _I CAN'T propose to her now! How would it look? She's ninety now and I'm—well, _technically speaking,_ I'm ninety too, but I still look like twentysomething… But then, what would she think if I told her that? It's not like I love her any less because she's old now, but—if I don't ask her, she may feel offended, and if I _do_ ask her, she may think it's a bit creepy… Just what the heck should I—_

"I see you've found yourself quite a nice nest."

Startled, Steve looked around to see Fury standing beside him.

"May I?" Fury asked, pointing at the free seat.

"Y-yeah, sure," Steve said. "Didn't really expect you here, sir. Not yet. I thought you weren't going to come for a couple of more days?"

"We had to rearrange our plans a bit. Had a very nasty situation at our equipment facility. Nasty and, frankly speaking, terribly embarrassing. But I'm not staying in New York for long; getting some things from the headquarters and I'm off again. Thought I might as well pay you a visit and talk to you in person. You see, because of that situation I just mentioned, we have to reschedule your recordings. There's too much of a mess in the company now to deal with your comeback now."

"Oh. I see." Steve was doing his best not to sound disappointed. "So… How much extra-time do I get?"

"That's an excellent question. We have no idea when we will sort it out, especially that the higher-ups want us to keep as quiet about the whole thing as possible."

"But can you give me at least the estimated time?"

"I'd be glad if I knew it myself."

"Uhm. Okay. Don't get me wrong, it's fine by me to have more free time, but I feel a bit like a—you know—_parasite._"

"A parasite?" Fury gave him a surprised look. "You mean?"

"Because all I've done for the past few weeks was slacking off, living on your expense and doing nothing in exchange for that."

"Listen, have you been polishing your skills during that time?"

"Well, yeah."

"Have you been composing?"

"Yes."

"So that counts as doing something in exchange for all we do for you. We're going to benefit from that, only a bit later than we thought. Also, remember that we owned the rights to your works, so you may think of our care as being paid with all the cash we've already earned thanks to you. Does it make you feel better?"

"…A bit, yes. But you did not take me under your wing to watch me live lazily ever after. And if the recordings are postponed, maybe there's another way I could prove myself useful. I don't know, maybe I could help you with that situation you just mentioned?"

"You don't even know what it is about."

"I can always ask."

"I'm not at liberty to disclose the details to the uninvolved parties."

"I can become involved, if you let me."

"No offence, but we wouldn't have much use of you in this case. We need a skilled technician and I don't think you know much about technology, especially taking into account the fact that things got a bit different since the forties. And you don't seem as someone who could do some detective work either."

"Whoah, I didn't know I'm working for the FBI now."

"I can assure you that you are not, unless you've got yourself a part time job I'm not aware of. But the fact that we're a record label does not mean we're invulnerable to crime. Nevertheless, those aren't matters you have to deal with."

"Is there _really_ no way I can help?"

"Well…" Fury paused for a moment, thinking. "If you are so _desperate_ to get to work, there _may_ be a small task for you. But it's really _very _small. And you'd have to leave the city for a while."

"Leaving New York is not something I would mind, really." Steve smiled widely. True, he would miss the club a bit, but getting out of that hotbed of noise was a quite pleasant prospect.

"But I repeat: the task you'll be entrusted with is nothing much. And you'll probably have so much free time it will be as if you were sitting here, only that it would be somewhere else."

"Well, I can always come back, can't I? Also, seriously, it will be nice to get some fresh air. The one around is not especially clear. Unless… I hope we're not going to somewhere even worse, huh?"

"No, we're going to a nice borough in Pennsylvania. Not really far away, but enough to feel the change."

"Sounds nice. When are we going?"

"I am going as soon as I leave this place—which is in about five minutes. And you… You need to pack your stuff and all, so you should leave in the evening. I'll send someone to pick you up. Still, I'm asking for one last time: do you _really_ want to go? You may get quite bored there."

"I'm going. After being stuck in New York for so much time, it'll be great to switch places for some time."

"All right, you're in." Fury stood up. "Be ready around seven o'clock. See you there and have a nice trip." They shook hands and Fury was about to leave, when he added, "Ah, and better have a marker pen at the ready."

"Why?"

"You shall see."

* * *

Steve felt almost ashamed of his excitement. Somehow, the whole idea of the trip appealed to him even more than the mysterious task awaiting him; he'd always been a city kid and he could count all his travels on the fingers of his one hand. There had been never enough time for that. All his life prior to his singing career had been either controlled by others—like the ladies from the orphanage he'd grown up in—or by his many, many jobs. And when he'd finally got noticed and his name become big, he'd found himself no less busy than before. That had been probably the reason why it had taken him so long to finally confess his feelings to Peggy.

He actually felt a bit guilty about the fact that his work once again stood between him and her, and that it was in fact only his fault—after all, he had been the one begging Fury for giving him _something_ to do. On the other hand, he decided he really needed more time before finally meeting her—and maybe he would finally make up his mind about what to tell her during his job. Or the different air would work miracles on his mind. Who knew? And at worst, being busy sounded to him like a better excuse than 'I had no idea what to tell you'.

The packing took him about ten minutes—he didn't really have much to pack, and the piano had to stay, obviously. Having a considerable amount time before the departure, he decided to spend it mostly with his beloved instrument, unsure whether there would be another in the place where he was going to—and whether, despite Fury's reassurances, he would have enough time to use it anyway.

He let his excitement and anticipation run wild. Steve almost _attacked_ the piano, going for a fast, lively pace from the very beginning. This time, however, he wanted to be more conscious; he had several hours to spare and he decided to be creative and actually write the better excerpts down for latter use rather than just get himself lost in his music completely. That turned out to be more difficult than he thought; he hadn't played with such energy for a long time and it was only too easy to get carried away. When he finally forced himself to slow down a little and concentrate, he realized that he'd been playing for almost four hours straight, had not written anything, his fingers demanded a break, and his stomach needed filling. He reluctantly complied.

And soon he was playing again, this time remembering to keep a more moderate speed and even _did_ write some bits down. After another couple of hours, 'some' turned into 'a lot' and there was a threat of it becoming 'an awful lot', when someone knocked on Steve's door. He immediately stopped playing and looked at his watch. Five past seven. Guessing it had to be the person Fury promised to send, Steve got up and opened the door.

He saw a middle-aged, rather short man in a suit, with receding, but still quite neatly combed hair. He was obviously trying to look as professional as possible, but the gleeful glint in his eyes and the fact he held himself a bit too stiffly, betrayed his nervousness and exhilaration; he seemed a bit like a child who finally got his chance to meet the shopping mall Santa and promptly forgot what he'd put on his wishlist.

"…Yes?" Steve asked finally after a minute of an awkward silence.

"Ah—My name's Phil Coulson, pleased to meet you, Mister Rogers!" the man replied, holding out his hand.

"Likewise, Mister Coulson." He shook Coulson's hand; his escort-to-be beamed.

"Director Fury told me to accompany you. He said you should be ready around seven. Or do you perhaps need more time? I can wait a couple of more minutes—"

"That won't be necessary, I am ready. I just have to stuff those papers somewhere in my bag." Steve waved towards the pile of notes he'd left on the piano.

"Ah. That's good. So, we may leave now, yes?"

"Yeah. But… you can stop shaking my hand now, Mister Coulson."

"Oh. I didn't notice I have not—well, I'm sorry."

"No, don't be, no harm done. I'll just take my things and off we go." He came back to the piano to collect the notes. He barely managed to pack them in the bag, when Coulson reached for it.

"I'll carry it to the car for you, Mister Rogers. Of course, if you don't mind."

"I don't, but there's no need, really. I can manage."

"So can I. It's not a problem, really." Coulson lifted the bag. "Well then, shall we?"

"I think so."

They left the room and took the elevator; Coulson glanced at Steve from time to time, smile still not fading from his face.

"There is one thing, though," he said when they finally reached the first floor. "I have to stop by one place before we leave New York. There is just something I need to pass on to someone. It shouldn't take long, we'll just drive there and I'll pop out for a few minutes. I hope it isn't too much of a problem?"

"Not at all," Steve replied. They walked out of the building and headed towards a black car parked nearby.

"Where exactly are we going?" Steve asked as Coulson put his bag in the trunk and they got inside the car.

"Fleetwood." Coulson fastened his seatbelt. "We should get there in about two hours, unless we'll have to make additional stops."

"And do you have any idea what task am I to be entrusted with?"

"I do have my guesses, Mister Rogers, but if Director Fury hasn't told you the details yet, I do not feel authorized to do it in his place. He would've told me to inform you otherwise." He started the engine and they finally set off.

"With all that secretiveness, I can hardly believe this company is just a record label and not just a cover for an underground agency protecting the fate of the world," Steve remarked.

Coulson chuckled. "Yeah, there are some people out there who think we're Men in Black or something."

"Men in—well, you do wear black suits, so—"

"It's a movie—sorry, I forgot you might not know it yet."

"Another thing to catch up with, then."

Silence followed. Coulson seemed even more nervous than earlier.

"You see, Mister Rogers—" he finally spoke "—I, er, I admire your work. I enjoy your music greatly."

"Ah—so you're a fan?" Steve asked. _That explains a bit,_ he thought.

"Yes. I mean, I won't say I'm your Number One Fan—that would sound awfully cliché—but I'm surely a big one."

"It's nice to hear." Steve smiled heartily. He'd heard similar confessions from others before, but every one of them was equally flattering.

"And… it's really a big honor to me to meet you. I never really dreamed of it. I was born after you disappeared, so I never thought I'd get a chance to meet you." With his every word, Coulson appeared to be more and more at ease. "You can imagine how thrilled I was to hear that you are in fact still alive. Best news ever."

"But it quickly got quiet. I guess I'm not that great as some people think. Probably I'm just outdated."

"Oh, good music is never outdated! It never ages."

"But people change. Styles change. There is always need for something fresh and the old junk ultimately is deemed as trash. It gets rejected." He sighed. "Forgotten."

"True gems do not get forgotten. They will last forever, even if in the memory of a very few. I refuse to believe they would eventually just fade away."

"Do you really think my songs are such gems?"

"Of course I do. See, Mister Rogers, I'm not saying it's going to be like in the old times. You probably won't be as popular as you used to be. But you still have devoted fans—and I bet that there will be more—even though your last record was released _seventy years ago_. If that doesn't say your music is amazing, I don't know what does."

Steve grinned, blushing slightly. "Thanks for saying that."

"Just stating the truth, Mister Rogers."

Shortly afterwards, they stopped in front of a building which seemed a bit small compared to all the skyscrapers surrounding it, but that was definitely not the only feature which made it stand out. Despite not being tall, it was taking up a fair share of place. It appeared more like a curious modern sculpture made from metal and glass bent into odd curved shapes—or some weird spaceship. Steve wouldn't really be surprised much if the building started to move, and the way it was illuminated only helped to intensify the feeling. However, what caught his attention the most was a large neon sign above what appeared to be the main door.

"I'll be back shortly," Coulson said and got out the car. Steve followed him with his eyes until his escort disappeared behind the entrance over which the glowing letters were spelling out the name 'STARK HALL'.

_My, isn't the world small,_ Steve thought as he recalled one of the people whom he owed everything he'd ever achieved as a musician. _Must be Howard's child._


	7. Challenge Accepted

Everything was important. Yes, of course, singing and playing the instrument were the vital parts, but there were other things not to be underestimated. He was not only a musician; he was a _performer_. Others could stick to their vocal chords and skilled hands—but not _him._ He had much more to offer for his audience. He never wanted to amaze people with sound alone. His concerts were full-blown spectacles of music, lights and movement. Each one of them had to be planned differently, and then carefully and thoroughly rehearsed. But there was also another element, without which his shows could not exist—the element of surprise

Because, really, where would be the fun in all of that if it was all to go as planned?

So now, at the very end of the rehearsal, having practiced the most important bits and dismissed the crew, Tony hopped lively around the stage, while improvising a bit chaotic fast solo and trying not to trip on the guitar's wire. He was sure he wouldn't repeat the moves or the notes during the gig, but that was not the point. That was just the only way he could keep his improvising skills from getting rusty. And there was also the issue of having fun and showing off in front of whoever was watching. In this case, it was Pepper.

As he finished, exhaustion finally winning over enthusiasm, Pepper got up from the fold-up chair placed in the corner of the stage, and clapped slowly, a wide smile lighting up her face.

"What, I wasn't good enough?" Tony asked with too obviously feigned hurt in his voice. "I hoped for a more keen applause! Did you _see_ what I did here? That wasn't just dancing, that was _this_ far from _acrobatics!_"

"You were absolutely fantastic, Tony" she said, coming a bit closer. "You were great as always. But I had a busy day and I'm as tired as you are, so don't expect me to yell and jump up and down, really."

"Yeah, yeah, I know. You're not one of my Duracell-powered fans." He rested his guitar against the amplifier and looked at it with a tiny glimpse of melancholy in his eyes. "Well, it was a great partnership. But I think I'll switch to Mark VII next time."

"Excuse me—Mark VII? Did you build _another_ one?" Pepper sounded slightly worried—and irritated.

"Well, not yet. I have to add some finishing touches."

"You know you shouldn't really—"

"Pepper, it's a beginning of a _new era!_" Tony exclaimed, his hands outstretched for a pseudo-dramatic effect. "New times, new location, new album. A new guitar seems only logical here."

"Tony, you're perfectly aware that you shouldn't do it anymore. Unless you develop a technique of building guitars from scratch without using a welding iron—"

"Oh, someday I probably will, being the genius I am. But until then, I'll just use the old method. It's quite reliable."

"But not advisable in your case."

"It doesn't have any long-term effects on me. And I _do_ have breaks; I'm not _that _irresponsible, you know."

"Tony, I have known you for long enough to know that you have 'irresponsible' written all over you."

"And you have known me for long enough to know that there are three things I simply can't live without. One of them is my music and everything connected with performing it. Another one is building the very things that make performing my music possible. Without either me or my guitar there would be no Iron Man. While on stage, we are one, we create him together. That is why my guitar has to be the work of my hands only; I have to understand it perfectly, every little part of it. And I really, really do my best not to work for too long. I'm far from suicidal. There is too much to enjoy in life to just carelessly waste it."

"And the third thing you can't live without is?"

He smirked, pulling her closer and wrapping his arm around her waist. "Guess."

"Oh." Pepper smiled and shook her head slightly. "Well, it's flattering and I appreciate it, but I'll give you a good reason to… _conclude_ this conversation a bit later."

"Aw, why?" Tony pulled his most effective 'kicked puppy' face. "We haven't had a _proper talk_ in a while now, with you and me being so busy… Ah, unless you want it to be a bit more cozy, with some champagne, and dimmed lights, and a soft—"

"First and foremost, I'd like us to be alone," she whispered and pointed above his arm; Tony looked around and groaned, seeing a security guard standing just in front of the stage.

"What is it?" Tony asked, stepping up to the edge of the stage.

"There's a Mister Coulson from S.H.I.E.L.D. Records waiting outside. He'd like to speak to you," the guard said.

"Tell him to go away and come back tomorrow—no, in a week. I'm busy."

"Well, I already told him you're about to finish the rehearsal and—"

"Dammit, seriously—then tell him I'm tired. Exhausted. Barely standing. On the verge of passing out. Just make him go away. And by the way, next week no longer stands; tell him to try next month."

"He says it's urgent."

"Okay. Three weeks then."

"Oh, just let him in," Pepper cut in. The guard nodded and headed towards the main door, while Tony just stood and gaped for a while, shifting his gaze from the man to Pepper and back again.

"Just—why the hell did you do that?" he finally asked.

"Well, have a little chat and maybe you'll be able to settle matters in five minutes. You did once."

"Yes, because I told him I had a very important meeting in a while and quickly got outta his sight. And you know what those guys did afterwards. That was a real nightmare…"

"A nightmare you nevertheless liked to look at, as long as I recall."

"But not to _listen to._ And she was not as easy to brush off as Coulson. I swear, Pepper," he pointed his index finger at her in an accusing manner, "if they send Nat again, you are _soooo_ going to pay for this."

"I can't wait," she murmured, as Tony jumped off the stage to greet Coulson, who just entered the hall and was walking towards them. None of the men, however, managed to say anything before Pepper waved at Coulson and said, "Hi, Phil!"

"Hello, Miss Potts," Coulson replied with a smile; the exchange provided Tony with another round of gaze-shifting.

"_Phil?_" he mouthed to Pepper eventually, and quickly turned back to Coulson. "Right, you've got five minutes, starting from now." He took a glance at his wristwatch. "So better be brief."

"I will. I'm actually in a hurry." He reached into his pocket and handed Tony a flash drive. "It contains parts of the documentation of some new equipment we're working on. We'd like you to take a look at this and—"

"—and to say that I'll happily oblige to help you with it, am I right?" Tony took the flash drive and twiddled it. "Sorry, can't do. Got a load of other things on my head already, so I regret to inform you I will not be able to do any extra work for you." He offered the device back to Coulson, who refused to take it.

"Of course, you will be rewarded for your cooperation—"

"Oh, yeah, because I'm in a desperate need for money. Can you imagine that recently I was forced to drink _old wine?_ The horror!"

"Mister Stark—"

"Can't hear you over the sound of the work I have to do."

"Please, at least _take a look_. And really consider working for us on this one. Fury wouldn't make me ask for your help if it was something we could manage by ourselves."

"That I can guess. But my answer still stands. And, in case you already forgot, it sounds 'no'. If you need outside help that badly, just look for someone else. I _highly _doubt they will be as brilliant as me, but maybe they'll be quite useful nevertheless. Now take it and go, your time is up."

"No, I'll ensure you _will_ check it out. And I believe that the contents are more convincing than me."

"And so was Miss Romanoff, and yet she failed."

"By a hair's breadth."

"Still, a fail is a fail. You said you were in a hurry, better go away now."

"I can wait that few minutes within which you'll glance at the files."

"Ow! What a pity I don't have my laptop here with me—"

"It's okay, you can use mine," Pepper said, reaching for her bag placed under the chair. "Tony, come up here."

With a heavy sigh, Tony climbed back onto the stage. "Traitor," he murmured.

"Now, don't be childish, if only for a while. Taking a look won't hurt you." She took out the laptop and turned it on.

"But it will take some precious moments of my time—_our_ time. The time we could spend in an entirely different way."

"Oh, shush. We'll get to that later, we have all night. Don't just brush Phil off this one time and try to be nice to him, could you?"

"I am always nice to people—where the hell do you know his first name from?"

"I just listen when they introduce themselves. Now, the drive, please?"

Tony reluctantly gave her the device. Pepper plugged it into the laptop, which she then promptly handed over to Tony. "Here you go. Just browse through it and then _politely _decline or accept."

"One day I will have my revenge. Okay, Coulson, I'm looking at the files right now and I still don't want to work for you, so—"

"You could try _opening_ them," Pepper said.

Tony sighed and rolled his eyes. "Fine!" he snapped. "I'm opening the file, here you go. And I'll surprise you now: _I am actually reading it!_"

He retreated to the back of the stage, deciding to get it over with and ignore Pepper and Coulson, who engaged in a conversation about some cellist. Or was it cellulite? He didn't care either way. He looked at the first file—a scanned page with half of its contents blurred out—half-consciously, then he switched to the next, similar one, then to the next again and again.

But after a minute, when he finally started to pay actual attention to what he was seeing, when he examined the intricate diagrams and processed the contents of the notes, he couldn't help but admit that it seemed not just interesting, but _fascinating. _Those things were like nothing he had ever seen before. Even though the information was incomplete, he could already notice the stunning, thoroughly designed integrity of the devices described in the files. Yes, the projects were rather old—he noticed several dates indicating the forties—and some of the solutions proposed were actually rather outdated. But if he was to make some modifications, it could actually _work._

Oh, that was tempting. Way too tempting than Tony expected it to be—than he _would like_ it to be. _I can't do it,_ he thought. _I've got plans. I can't just put them off and do something else._

He wanted to avert his eyes, give the laptop back to Pepper and once again refuse to lend his hand, period—but at the same time it was begging for his attention and he just couldn't resist. What wouldn't he give to have the access to the full documentation and to put it into use…

_Well, but it's not like I have anything fixed at the moment._

He unplugged the drive, shut the laptop and turned around to face Pepper and Coulson.

"And?" Coulson asked, as Tony gave back the laptop to its owner.

"It's… actually better than I thought," Tony said.

"Is that a 'yes'?"

"No, not really. But my answer is no longer 'no', it's 'maybe'. You said you were in a hurry?"

"Yes. And to be honest, I expected our meeting to go a little bit quicker. I already owe someone an apology."

"Accepted."

"I wasn't really talking about you, Mister Stark."

"Uhm. Okay. Say, can I have a little bit more time to decide on that? I'll give you a call. I mean it, I _will._ A scout's word of honor I will."

"I didn't know you used to be a scout," Pepper remarked.

"Got kicked out, but still."

"Fine," Coulson said. "But do make your decision in a relatively short span of time. It would be best if you could call me in one-two days time."

"Will do. And can I keep it?" Tony waved the drive at him.

"Of course. Just don't disclose its contents to anyone, under any circumstances. Those files are considered a trade secret and if they were to be seen by an unauthorized party… it would cause quite a problem."

"Yeah, I can imagine." Tony twiddled the flash drive one again before pocketing it. "Well, I guess that's all?"

"Indeed, it is. I'll be waiting for your call. Goodbye, Mister Stark. Goodbye, Miss Potts." He bowed his head slightly and left the hall.

"Are you _really_ interested or were you just saying that?" Pepper asked, putting her laptop back into the bag.

"Nope, it's for real." Tony proceeded to unplug his guitar and turn off the rest of the equipment. Pepper stared at him, surprised.

"You are _joking,_" she said.

"I'm certainly not. You wanted me to be nice and here you go. I bet you didn't see that much niceness coming, did you—"

"Tony, what about your plans? That new era of yours? We've been preparing from _months_ and now you're just… _putting it off?_" Her voice was a bit more than just slightly annoyed.

"Only a bit. I'll take a look at that stuff, dabble a bit in it and then we get back to our business. That is, if I decide to. I haven't agreed yet."

"You are impossible."

"That's a part of my irresistible charm." He winked at her.

"Tony, you do realize that there are still things that need to be taken care of—"

"And we have no dates set. Currently there's no deadline to meet. Everything's gonna be fine, don't worry."

"As your manager, I can only say this is very irresponsible of you."

"And what can you say as Pepper?"

"More or less… the same." She walked up to him. "Tell me, just what on Earth did Coulson show you, that within a few minutes you almost completely changed you mind on the spot?"

A gleam of excitement flickered in Tony's eyes. "Something absolutely wonderful."


	8. Second Thoughts

**AN: Sorry for the long wait! Real life is being a bit of a wench. It was either writer's block or lack of time that stopped this chapter from being published earlier (also the fact that this is ****_not_**** the only thing I'm writing at the time, but shh).**

**Also a warning in advance: there may be ****_another_**** wait like this between this chapter and the next one; I'm supposed take care of my BA thesis, which is anything but finished at the moment and I ****_really_**** should get it done in a matter of weeks.**

**But now, on with the chapter!**

* * *

That was… not quite what Clint had been expecting. It was hard to tell _what exactly_ he'd been expecting, but _that_ was certainly not that. Not even remotely close. Once again he began to doubt whether he'd made the right decision.

Some things didn't really change much. His workplace was again a facility in the middle of nowhere—well, there was some town nearby, but he kept forgetting the name. Again, he had been told not to leave the premises—or, if he _really _had to, return as soon as possible. But the studio they'd been working in during last few days could use a bit of renovation, and so could the whole building, actually, starting with the central heating which seemed to work on a purely random basis. He felt a bit like a criminal on the run, hiding from pursuit in some dark, abandoned place—but he absolutely did _not _consider himself one. After all, they hadn't really _stolen_ anything. Loki said taking the equipment would be too troublesome and Selvig would probably have to dismantle everything anyway after getting access to full documentation on the Tesseract set. After a relatively short while of pondering, they ended up taking only some parts of the amplifier and the guitar, all of those small enough to fit in a bag—the ones which came together with the notes. As far as Clint knew, all of that, from a legal point of view, was Selvig's property, not S.H.I.E.L.D.'s.

Their departure had been _laughably_ easy. Since the only thing that kept Clint and Selvig confined in the studio—and the facility in general—was their sheer will to finish their job on time, they could pretty much leave whenever they wanted to if they decide it wouldn't have much impact on what they were working on—or if they chose to screw everything. As for Loki… Well, it seemed his fake ID was enough to let him wander in, out, or around the place without much trouble. In the end, all three of them just _walked out_, with nobody paying any attention to them but the security guard at the main gate—who didn't do much except checking their documents and asking them if they could get him some magazine in the nearest town. Afterwards, they got into Clint's car, parked outside and they were off, simple as that.

And so it would seem that everything he and Selvig had done was leaving the facility in the middle of their job and quitting without providing any reasons—or, for that matter, informing anyone. That had not been breaking the law. Breaching their contracts, yes—which probably would bring some legal repercussions eventually—but _that was not a crime. _Right?

He kept repeating that to himself over and over again, but it didn't really help to ease his mind. The annoying feeling of having done something _terribly wrong_ was still bothering him and the overall atmosphere wasn't helping either.

He began to like being busy; at least at those times he could focus on his work and not think too much about all the uncertainties of his current situation. Maybe a similar kind of escapism was the reason behind Natasha's workaholism?

_WORK, Clint! Don't get distracted!_

The last thing he needed was thinking of _her._ After everything he'd been told, everything Loki had made him realize, anything that was in some way connected to Natasha made Clint feel like he had a needle stuck somewhere in his chest. The thought of their bond having been nothing but an illusion, barely means to achieve and end—that he was apparently treated just like one more instrument—was so unbearable he eventually started to wait impatiently for Loki's shift to end, so it would be his turn to help Selvig and others with further updating the Tesseract set—including a new guitar, which Loki claimed to have got from his mysterious associates. Apparently they'd built it according to the notes they already had in their possession, and, despite Selvig dubbing it "a work of art" the moment he took a closer look at it, it still needed some touch-ups.

He also wondered what Loki was trying to escape from.

The first thing that caught Clint's attention was that one and only time he witnessed Loki strike the wrong chord. For Clint things like that had always been just an occupational risk; a very undesirable element, but still one that he could easily get over with, even if it happened during a live performance (which had, thankfully, happened once in a blue moon). For Loki, however, it clearly was not the case. As soon as he realized what he'd done, he went rigid, the look on his face so shocked and horrified as if he'd accidentally just killed someone. Then, after a while of staring at the instrument and not responding to Selvig's "what's wrongs" and "you okays", he put the guitar down and muttered something about finishing early and getting some fresh air.

He hadn't come back to work until the next morning. That was when Clint finally started to _notice_. And he didn't really like what he saw—that with every few hours that passed Loki seemed to be increasingly fatigued and stressed. Clint thought of confronting him on that issue, but then he was somehow sure that he wouldn't get an honest answer. There were selected subjects Loki would engage in a conversation about, but his very person was not one of them. As for their other co-workers—which had been waiting for Clint, Selvig and Loki at the new location—they weren't really keen to talk, not only about Loki, but pretty much in general.

All that secretiveness and the scale of the whole thing he'd got himself into—because really, how, just _how_ had Loki got those fake documents and access cards which allowed him to go freely around the _fortress _the facility was, without _anyone at all_ suspecting a single thing?—made Clint think about some ominous, powerful organization being behind everything. That, along with the fact that he and Selvig hadn't been officially offered any new contracts yet, was particularly unsettling, but Clint just had a feeling that backing off now wouldn't be a particularly good idea.

Selvig, on the other hand, appeared to be content with his new job. While he had his fair share of rants about the overall state of his new workplace, he seemed to work with more enthusiasm than ever before, and Clint could bet that the new pages Loki presented him with had much to do with it—although occasional compliments on his progress and having an actual team of assistants instead of just one helper in all probability had a positive effect on him too.

And while the progress was—at least according to Selvig—impressive, there were still some seemingly minor things that needed improvement. Said minor things soon became major things, when Selvig realized that even with all his technical knowledge he just _couldn't_ find a way to fix them, no matter how he tried.

That was about time he also realized that he still hadn't received _all_ the pages, and decided to remind Loki of the fact, to which Loki replied only "I'm on it," and subsequently asked Clint to have a chat in private.

* * *

Loki did not seem too eager to actually start the chat, however. Since Clint had followed him out of the building, all Loki did was lighting a cigarette and slowly inhaling and exhaling the smoke, his eyes closed.

"You could use some patches," Clint said, wanting to break the somewhat uncomfortable silence. "They really help. I quit smoking thanks to them."

"Maybe one day." Loki still did not open his eyes. "Patches do not work the same as cigarettes, and for the time being I prefer the latter."

"Okay. Fine. Just saying. So… what do you want to talk about?"

"I need some help in getting the last few pages. Could you lend me a hand?"

"Ah. Well…" Clint ran his hand through his hair. "It's—it's not really one of my duties, you see. Maybe you could ask someone else?"

"Or I could ask you instead. Out of all the people in the facility, you're the one who has the most flexible schedule. And it's not like Selvig will do much with the Tesseract set from now on without the full manual, so he won't be needing us. We can easily do some fieldwork."

"'We'? As in, us both?"

Loki opened his eyes and shuffled a little closer. "Clint, if this job did not require two people, I'd do it all by myself. Sadly," he dropped the burnt out cigarette and crushed it with his boot, "I think this would not work."

"And _why_ is that?" Clint asked, apprehension growing inside him.

"Mostly because a distraction of sorts is needed—that would actually be _my_ part. _You_ would be the one to get the notes."

Clint furrowed; he didn't like the sound of this. "Why the hell would you need a _distraction?_ I mean, we're just going to get some notes, not steal the Declaration of Independence—"

"You see, Clint—"

Suddenly, the sound of his phone ringing interrupted him. He fumbled a bit before getting it out of his pocket and answered the call, gesturing Clint to go away and mouthing "We'll talk later."

Clint obliged and went back into the building, unable to shake off the uneasiness left—or rather strengthened by the short talk.

_Seriously, what have I gotten myself into?_

* * *

"Any progress since the last time?"

The voice in the receiver sounded almost as rough and overbearing as always. There was, though, one seemingly trivial difference: there was an obvious tinge of irritation in it. It hadn't been devoid of it before, no; this time it was only too painfully clear.

"On the way," Loki said, putting all his confidence into his words. "We've already made considerable progress; it only seems that Selvig will indeed need the rest of the notes to finish his work."

"That's hardly an improvement, considering that you _still_ haven't managed to get them."

"It would be a bit faster and easier if _you_ took care of that."

"I thought we've made it clear that we have _other_ matters to take care of. And you _accepted_ what we have to offer, so better _don't_ get so cocky now."

"I am _not_ getting cocky. I am only making a suggestion that _a little help would be appreciated._"

"You _have_ got your help and that's all for now. You're beginning to try our patience, and trust me,_ he_ does not like to have his patience tried. Understood?"

Loki clenched his teeth and swallowed hard. "Yes."

"That's good. So, we're hoping that you are about to do something about the shortage in resources, aren't you?"

"I will get the notes as soon as I can."

"And 'soon' is when exactly?"

"As soon as I can get to Pennsylvania and back. I intend to go today, tomorrow maybe, if—"

"_Today,_" the voice in the receiver cut him short. "And get it done quickly. Remember, we _really_ do not like to be kept waiting for too long."

Before Loki could reply, the caller hung up. Muttering a curse under his breath, Loki tucked the phone back into his pocket and again reached for his pack of cigarettes.

However, it was a bit harder to light up one now with his hands shaking slightly.


End file.
